Recent Posts

The sentiment did not sound pathetic at all, at least not to Lewis. In fact, it sounded quite fitting; he had wondered how Penelope kept herself entertained on the fringes of ballrooms at so many events, and it only seemed right that she might spend her time observing the rest of the partygoers. 

Perhaps Lewis would do well to take a leaf out of her book. For the most part, he spent these evenings letting his mind drift as far away from the ballroom as it could go. As much as he might prefer to run over the day's operations or silently recite the dry medical texts he had read over the week, however, focusing on the other guests here would likely serve him far better in the social minefield of the ton. If Penelope truly spent her evenings in quiet observation, she must know a good deal about the people who attended these events. 

Mulling over the matter thoughtfully, he paused to let her spin from his fingertips, as the dance required, before she returned within speaking distance again. When she was back at his side, he replied, "That is a fine idea, Miss Featherington. I'm afraid I am rather hopeless when it comes to that sort of observation. I am sure you know more about any one person in this room than I know of all of them combined."

Ah, poor, oblivious Benedict. The Bridgerton brother had no idea what door he had just opened up. If Morrison had still been here as part of the conversation, he might have found some tactful way to gently remind Lewis that even if the topic of anatomy held some relevance to Benedict's interests, perhaps discussing the casts of flayed human bodies was not the best option in a refined gentleman's club between two men who had only just met. At present, however, Morrison was not a part of the conversation, and Lewis found himself with absolutely no obstacles barring him from discussing whatever he pleased. 

As long as Benedict consented to listen, at least. 

"It is not écorchés in particular, sir, that interest me — it is rather the study of human anatomy itself." His tone had not lost any of its enthusiasm or passion; if anything, it had only gained new measures of both, and he was, for the first time, properly looking at Benedict. "You say that you draw from live models, yes? Well, that is fine enough for many purposes. But let us say, for the sake of argument, that you wished to draw Christ on the cross. Indulge me — let us say that you were approached by a wealthy patron who requested such a painting. What reference would you study for that?"

How on earth did people make small talk like this for hours on end? Lewis was growing bored already. To give credit where it was due, he could tell that Benedict was really doing his best to carry the conversation well; it was hardly his fault that society had decided that the most acceptable topics of conversation were also the most shallow and mind-numbing. Talking about architecture was better than talking about the weather, he supposed. It could always be worse. 

As dull as he found the conversation itself, Benedict at least deserved some attempt on Lewis' part. Judging by Morrison's animated gestures in his own conversation across the room, he was not likely to be returning anytime soon, which meant that Lewis could not count on a rescue. Better to feign polite interest until he could make his own exit. God, he hated clubs. Forcing a mild, cordial smile, he replied, "I must confess myself rather ignorant of architecture. I admire the look of the buildings in Edinburgh, but I could hardly tell you which was built three hundred years ago and which was built last week."

Once again, Lewis felt the rising instinct to seize on the slightest opportunity to turn the conversation back to the subject of anatomy. It would be easy to do so, given the opening Benedict had unwittingly given him; the situation in Edinburgh was even worse than the situation in London, which Lewis could easily begin to explain now. For now, however, he held his tongue. As easy as it would be to turn the conversation back to dissection now, he would likely only drive Benedict away in doing so. He had made that mistake in the past more times than he cared to count. Introducing the topic to men ill-versed in the study of medicine required a bit of finesse — hence Lewis' attempt to tie the matter to art, instead. He would have to wait for a better opportunity. 

For now, more idle small talk. Tedious, but bearable. At least Benedict seemed content enough to keep speaking with him, which was more than Lewis could say of many men to whom he was introduced at clubs like this. Most of them were more eager to get back to their wine and cards than to engage a surly Welshman in dull conversation. "I enjoyed it well enough." It was his natural inclination to leave his answer simply at that, but he supposed it would be better to give Benedict a little more to work with. "Edinburgh is... a very beautiful city. Stunning buildings."

Benedict had not offended Lewis in the least. Lewis was displeased, certainly, with Benedict's insistence on asking personal questions instead of letting Lewis continue as he wished, but he had taken no genuine offence to that. It was not very unreasonable, however, for Benedict to make that assumption — many who did not know Lewis found his general demeanour rather off-putting, and that was doubly true when he was on some medical rant or another. He had to make conscious reminders, at times, to relax a little, so that he could present a bit more of an amiable image. 

Seeing Benedict's discomfort, he gave himself one of those reminders now. Relax, unwind, be friendly. It was always a bit more difficult when he was already on edge, but he did his best to force some of the tension out of his body. There was no sense in upsetting Benedict when he had done nothing wrong. His question was innocent enough. Flexing his fingers briefly against the arm of the chair, he replied, "Through a mutual friend. I wished to tour the anatomy schools of Edinburgh; a friend put us in touch so that Morrison could act as my guide." He tried, this time, to put a bit more warmth into his tone. After a brief pause, he added, without looking at Benedict, "What of you? How did you meet him?"

In most situations, Lewis would have been more than pleased to talk about his own work. He was not as prone to boasting as Morrison, but he still had a healthy amount of pride in his own skill at the operating table, and he was firmly of the opinion that the general public ought to have a better understanding of surgery as a whole. If he had paused to consider the conversation rationally, he might have recognised the benefit of delving a little more into his own background and profession before launching directly into this discussion, but careful consideration was not exactly his strong suit. 

"I do not, no." Again, the answer was rather dismissive. Lewis had never seen much use for art in his own life, beyond the base level of sketching required to make small drawings to augment his surgical notes when occasion called for them. Just as before, he barrelled on before Benedict could have any chance to question him further. "Do you draw strictly from live models or have you studied écorchés?" 

Whenever he had cause to pass the threshold of a gentlemen's club, Lewis always did so with an equal mix of awe and trepidation. Generally, he only came when someone higher in society — Morrison or Barthélemy, usually — invited him; that, coupled with the general elite aura of the place itself, was enough to heap a sense of overwhelming pressure on his shoulders. As much as possible, he preferred to stay quiet and out of men's ways. The less he talked, the less of an opportunity he gave for them to notice and comment on the heavy Welsh accent, and the less likely he was to say the wrong thing to offend the wrong person. 

Generally, Morrison was content enough to let him stay silent if he wished. The Scotsman usually settled down for a game of cards with a small handful of men, all of whom — Morrison included — talked more than enough to make a full conversation without Lewis contributing very much. That was precisely how Lewis preferred to spend these afternoons. He rather enjoyed cards, as much as he disliked the socialisation that came with the games, and being able to play a few hands while the rest of the men chatted away suited him well enough.

Every so often, however, Morrison would end up leaving Lewis to his own devices. Those were the situations Lewis always dreaded. He never quite knew what to do when the Scotsman disappeared; he never knew the other men in attendance well enough to feel comfortable going up to any and striking up a conversation, nor did he think it proper to simply ask to join in on any card games on his own. Usually, he ended up simply standing awkwardly at the bookshelves and pretending to study the spines until Morrison found him again. 

Today, the Scotsman had left him off even worse. He had been insisting on the whole carriage ride over that he really must introduce Lewis to Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, and introduce the two he had — and no sooner had he done so than he spotted another friend across the room, and with little more than a hasty promise to find Lewis again when they were ready to depart, he had slipped off. Lewis, much to his absolute horror, found himself not only left alone, but already tethered to a conversation with a complete stranger. He could hardly slink off now without appearing terribly rude. After watching Morrison's retreating back helplessly for a moment or two, Lewis reluctantly turned his pale grey eyes back onto Benedict. 

"... so." He had no idea what to say, but he had to say something. "Morrison... tells me you are an artist."